


Silence, Part 1

by wargoddess



Series: The Templar Canticles [8]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, Creepy, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Physical Disability, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:38:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen is taken captive by the Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This probably looks like porn, at first. IT IS NOT. Holy fuck it isn't. I'm not much interested in torture as kink, so take serious note of the warnings and tags, please. I don't use them lightly.

     Carver is inside him and the world is safe and good.  Carver is deep -- burning, pounding, pouring strength through Cullen's vitals, pressing love down on his skin, and Cullen feels like he will never be weak again.  Carver has fucked the weakness out of him.  Carver's hands are on his skin, his lips are on the nape of Cullen's neck, and Cullen feels these things as proof that he is not alone.

     "Harder?" Carver asks.  His breath is heavy, steady.  He's close, Cullen can tell, but he'll hold.  For Cullen, he can hold forever.  "Faster?"

     Cullen closes his eyes, trusting utterly.  "More," he says, pants, groans.  "Please just give me more."

#

     Death comes out of nowhere.  Cullen doesn't even notice its approach until the man on the horse ahead of him cries out and flails, falling.  The horse rears in alarm, and suddenly everything is chaos.  Arrows fly.  Silver-clad figures come running out of the trees, shouting to spook the horses, Smiting to startle the mages and the recruits.  It's an attack by Templars against Templars, something out of Cullen's darkest nightmares, and he feels his heart break even as he unlimbers his shield and draws his sword and calls out to rally the men.

     There are twenty fighters in his party.  He'd thought that would be enough for safety, but there are fifty attackers at least.  They are overwhelmed.

#

     It is overwhelming, having Carver on top of him.  He's a big man in more ways than one -- a little taller and more solid than Cullen, broader at the shoulder, longer in the arm.  Built perfectly for that two-handed sword he so loves.  His presence is a big thing, too, and though Cullen would never hurt him by the comparison, it is obvious to everyone _except_ Carver that he is brother to the Champion of Kirkwall.  Both men radiate that aura of competence and focus.  Carver's focus is more personal and direct -- when he attends to something it is everything to him, nothing else matters, he can tear through walls and walk through fire to work his will upon it.  He is a little less confident, or just less cocky, than Garrett Hawke, which Cullen thinks is a good thing.  But whenever Cullen has seen both men side-by-side, and especially when their goals are -- however briefly -- the same, it is an awesome thing.

     Carver's cock is big too, long and thick and wide-headed, heavy when Cullen holds it in his hands.  Cullen will never admit it aloud, but sometimes he worries that he will die while Carver is fucking him.  That cock goes so deep, even when Carver is being gentle.  And sometimes when he is not being gentle, Carver drives it so hard.  Sometimes Cullen finds himself spread across the bed or bent over the living room table with Carver's hands like vicegrips on his hips or shoulders, and he thinks about death.  Right now, for example -- as Cullen is dripping sweat onto his own forearms, he is deafened by the sound of his own harsh breath, he is barely noticing the way the table's rough wooden edge digs into the front of his thighs and catches on his pubic hair, because Carver is punching him in the guts with what feels like an arm.  It doesn't hurt, exactly.  It feels good in a way that makes him dizzy.  The room blurs around him in jarring jerks.  He sees stars with every thrust, it steals his breath so that he can only pant, only whimper, even as his body screams with the pleasure of it.  When he comes with Carver inside him he wants to scream with his voice and can't.  He can only shake in silence.  It's that good. 

     But what if something goes wrong?  What if that big cock goes _too_ deep sometime, drives _too_ hard, and tears him open?  What if the orgasm feels _too_ good and his heart bursts, or his brain spasms?  It would be a deeply embarrassing way to die.  And it would break Carver's heart.

     He would demand this of Carver every day, every few _hours_ , if not for that.

#

     Their attackers are of the Inquisition.  Worse, this group is led by Ser Karras.

     Cullen is injured, because he fought until he no longer could.  He had young mages with him; he was on his way back from Starkhaven to Kirkwall per an agreement that Bran worked out with Prince Sebastian, and this was the first overture of that treaty.  All the mages of the Free Marches will be trained in Kirkwall's Circle now, and all the cities of the Marches will contribute towards the Gallows' upkeep.  It is a positive development, because since the war children found to have mage powers have had to flee their homes, hoping to find a group of rebel mages before a group of Inquisitors finds them first.  Stories of what the Inquisitors have done to those children are... harrowing.  Cullen is determined to die before he lets that happen.

     But they hamstring him, and break both his arms, and when a sleep-spell cast from somewhere fails to work on him -- he _is_ the Knight Commander, it is an insult that they even try -- one of his attackers simply clouts him in the head with a mace.  It nearly kills him, but he awakens many hours later feeling the tingles of magical healing still prickling his scalp.  He realizes they have uncracked his skull and unbruised his brain... and that this is probably not a good thing.

     The proof is that they haven't healed anything else.  The cut to his leg is bandaged, but the leg still won't work when he tries to flex it.  They've tied his wrists but deliberately left his arms unsplinted, the broken bones unset.  The head they fixed because it would've killed him, but everything else keeps him helpless and assumably too focused on the pain to plot an escape.

     They're wrong about that.  Cullen has spent years perfecting the mental disciplines needed to function as a Templar, as a Reaver; it is nothing to him to push the pain elsewhere, make his body someone else's.  Just a thing that happens to be attached to him.  So despite the pain he sits up, using only the muscles of his belly, and looks around.

     It is night-time.  They're at a camp in some forest somewhere; there's a fire nearby with logs propped around for sitting.  A crude spit is jammed into the ground near the fire, roasting... actually he's not sure what that animal is, but it's roasting.  The men and women who sit around him have familiar faces in some cases, are total strangers in others, but the hostility they radiate is uniform.  He cannot see the other Templars who were with him; he cannot see the mages.  He is alone among his enemies... and Karras is walking toward him with a grin.

     Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked, and do not falter.

#

     "Oh, Maker," Cullen whispers, between panting.  "Oh Maker and His bride, look upon me."

     It is not blasphemy when Cullen says these things.  Not even when he says them while he is propped over Carver, gripping the other man's legs with his knees, pushing himself against the warm curve of Carver's hips and into the tight cavern of his body, and shaking with the wondrousness of it.  He _loves_ fucking Carver.  And that is a good thing because Carver loves being fucked.  He makes the most beautiful sounds as Cullen drives into him -- broken-voiced groans, half-choked sobs, mumbled pleas and curses that rise in pitch and incoherence until he is simply yelping out gibberish by the end, begging without words, speaking in tongues. 

     Cullen's favorite thing in the world to do, when Carver gets to that point, is to grip his upper arms.  Carver has marvelous deltoids and biceps; even with his hands spread wide Cullen cannot completely encompass them.  But that is where Cullen can best feel the intensity of Carver's pleasure, writ in flesh and bone.  His muscles tighten as his orgasm approaches, growing harder and harder until Cullen thinks they might snap, until they start to quiver.  That is when Cullen grips him hard and gives him everything:  all his strength, all his force, all his wanting and care.  But he does not let himself slip past the boundary of pleasure, because he wants to feel. 

     And then -- oh _yes_ \-- Carver begins to shudder all over, and he howls or shouts or utters words like _fuuuuu_ or _Cuuuu_ , and every so often he is completely silent, but his whole body jerks like a man dying.  It takes Cullen everything he has not to lose control then, dragged into it by Carver's delight, but he holds.  He rides the quivering, pulsing engine of muscle that is his lover's beautiful body, and he feels utterly powerful in that instant, utterly at one with the Maker's creation.  And then Carver's whole body turns to jelly.  The deltoids under Cullen's hands, which had been like stone, go soft as warm butter.  Carver collapses, if he has been standing, or sinks into the bedsheets.  And then, only then, does Cullen let himself come.

     As he does, he prays.

     _Look upon me O Maker, look at the -- look at the --_ He gasps, has to fight through the pounding of his own heart to concentrate.  _Look upon the -- ah, ah! -- the glory of your creation, look upon the beauty of the forms that you -- oh -- have given us -- look -- look -- O Maker please look, this is glory --_

     It is not blasphemy because he means every word.  And when he collapses onto Carver afterward, murmuring "Thank you, Maker, Andraste, oh sweet flames, this is, he is, everything is, don't ever," his gratitude is utterly sincere.

#

     "Never liked you," says Karras, as he lays the hot poker against Cullen's flesh again.  "Sanctimonious bastard."

#

     Sending the mind elsewhere during torture is easy, really.  Pleasure is an antidote to pain.  Memory is a refuge from the present.  One man's love is a marvelous weapon against the whole Chantry's hate.

     He is not sure how he would have done this, without Carver in his life.

#

     When Karras finally stops -- only because one of his fellow Inquisitors said Cullen could die, bone chips in the blood or something like that, Cullen heard it only through the ringing of his ears and the echo of his own screams -- Cullen spends awhile recovering.  To all appearances, this looks like unconsciousness.

     When he manages to sit upright again, the sky is noonday-bright.  The fire has gone out, the mysterious creature on its spit is gone and assumably eaten, and the Inquisition is packing up to move.  A woman whose face Cullen vaguely recalls from the Gallows courtyard comes over to check his bindings.  They're intact, and very tight, because Cullen's hands are swollen and his skin is hot and taut all down his arms.  Karras worked the arms back and forth, laughing while Cullen's bones ground and splintered further, and his body is reacting accordingly with fever and spasm.

     Shaking violently, Cullen stammers, "Wh-what have... you done with... mages.  My _men_."

     The woman throws him a sharp look, though this is not angry.  "Your men aren't your men anymore.  We're giving them a choice:  join us or die.  Your mages..."  Her lips curl in distaste.  "Most of them were too young and untrained to be of use to us.  We sold them off to some slavers; at least they can help finance our war effort."

     Cullen closes his eyes against grief. 

     "Heard about your little Declaration of mageyness, or whatever it was," the woman goes on, sitting up now that she's sure his bonds are secure.  "You're public enemy number one in some parts, Knight Commander.  There's a bidding war going on over who gets you.  Karras has his way, we'll sell you to all of 'em, a piece at a time."

     This is only to be expected, and it does not trouble him.  Much.  He keeps focused on what is important.  There had been two adult mages with them, formerly of the Starkhaven Circle, who'd turned themselves in to the remaining Starkhaven Templars and asked to be transported to Kirkwall.  "What of -- "  He can't remember those mages' names.  He barely spoke to them.

     Then he hears a cry, hoarse and full of despair, cutting through the noise of the assembling camp.

     "The trained mages are being made useful," says the woman, smiling coldly at the look on his face.  "Magic is meant to serve man, after all."

#

     They bundle him onto a horse like so much baggage, and carry him off into the woods.

     Cullen cannot focus on tracing their route so that he can figure out their direction, figure out which way to flee when he escapes.  The jostling is too much; he must do everything he can to keep the pain from breaking him.

#

     Carver likes sucking cock.  He's said this to Cullen on more than one occasion, but Cullen could've guessed it.  There's just too much enthusiasm in the way Carver does the exercise.  Too much raw hunger in his eyes when he sinks to his knees before Cullen, his face still and intent in a way that Cullen has only seen from him in battle.  His hands are too quick and eager as they unfasten Cullen's pants, as he reaches in to graze the underside of Cullen's shaft with the pads of his fingers, as he caresses Cullen loose from the encumbering cloth like coaxing something shy out of hiding.  If Cullen is hard when he does this -- and Cullen almost always is, from sheer anticipation -- Carver sets on him at once, not even bothering to conceal his greed as he nibbles and sucks and licks and makes the most obscene slurping sounds.  If Cullen is soft... Cullen thinks maybe Carver likes that better.  Because he teases, then.  Light kisses.  Gentle strokes, a tickle, a nuzzle.  He likes to _wiggle_ Cullen, laughing in delight while Cullen bites his lip and tries not to whimper.  It's hard for Cullen not to watch, although that ends Carver's fun too quickly because the sight of Carver there _playing_ always arouses Cullen to the point of pain.

     And once he is thus aroused, Carver turns cruel.  Cullen can always tell when the game's about to begin, because Carver grins up at Cullen with that wide, wicked smile he flashes so rarely, and he wraps his hand more firmly around the base of Cullen's cock -- so that he can squeeze, if he needs to, and choke off Cullen's orgasm as it begins.  Then Cullen knows he is in for a long and beautifully awful session of sweet torment, in which Carver will tease him to the brink and then force him back and bring him to again, until Cullen is bargaining with him for release, until he is reduced to moaning only Carver's name, until he just shudders and whispers _Please.  Please.  Please._

     Only then will Carver let him go, and when he spends into Carver's mouth it is a thing of unbearable sweetness and desperate relief.  Afterward Carver will climb up Cullen's body, guide him to sit down somewhere if Cullen was standing, or pull him close if they are lying down.  And he will simply gaze at Cullen for awhile, watching him come down from the pinnacle, watching him become human again.  Sometimes Carver won't bother stroking himself off, afterward; he's already gotten what he wanted.  He is content with Cullen's pleasure, perhaps even more so than Cullen himself.

  
#

     Karras dislocates his arms, then shoves them back into their sockets.  He seems to enjoy doing this repeatedly.

     Maker, how Cullen misses Carver.

#

     Cullen's in a stupor, not unconscious but not thinking, when a column of white hot flame erupts at the center of camp.

     He has enough presence of mind to think, dully, _Now is my chance._   The camp instantly falls into chaos, half the Inquisitors running toward the blast and shouting to each other, the other half running away.  Poor discipline.  Karras never was a very good officer.  But Cullen's too weak to take advantage of this, his body too abused.  Someone remembered to give him water not long ago, belatedly realizing he hadn't drunk in two days.  The man who gave it to him cursed him and told him to speak up if he wants something, because otherwise he'll get nothing; the Inquisition does not coddle heathens.  Cullen didn't ask because he wasn't thirsty, or hungry.  He hasn't needed to urinate, even.  These are all bad signs, he knows.

     He doesn't want to die.  By now Carver will be looking for him, riding out of Kirkwall with every Templar Hunter in the Gallows; Cullen wants to be alive when he finally arrives.  Staying with these people means death.  So he makes a colossal effort and sits up, then has to stop when his head spins.  The dizziness fades, however, so Cullen then tries to work himself up onto the leg that still functions.  His arms are lead weights, sending periodic flares of molten heat at his brain; they are no use.  No.  They are not part of him, the pain is not there.  He uses his chin and a nearby saddle to lever himself up on one knee.  He is contemplating how to stand with only one leg when something flashes through the camp and knocks him flat again.  He has time to think, _Fist of the Maker_ , and then he knows no more.

     He awakens with what's left of the lyrium in his blood tingling, and for a moment he's confused by the absence of pain.  Then he opens his eyes to see a young woman in rough smuggler's garb crouched next to him, her hands extended, her eyes shut.  She's not using a staff, and her clothes have none of the usual enchantment-enhancers woven in that a robe would carry.  But she is without a doubt channelling healing magic into him.  Only a trickle, but it helps.

     "Knight Commander," says a voice, and Cullen has to think to turn his head.  The mage who stands there is old, and powerful, and familiar.  Tobrius.  Cullen is surprised to remember the name; he cannot ever remember speaking to him.

     "Melania is doing what she can for you," Tobrius continues.  "She is barely trained as yet, unfortunately, being an apostate; we have no one more skilled, alas.  And your injuries are significant.  It does not help that they have been... exacerbated." 

     Such a delicate word, Cullen thinks, for something so crudely done.  Then it occurs to him to ask:  "Feathers?"  It hurts to speak.  The word is a croak.  _Now_ he's thirsty, probably because he's no longer quite so close to death.  Perhaps that is why he has the wherewithal to wonder if he's gone from the frying pan into the fire.

     "No."  Tobrius smiles thinly.  "Not all mages agree with their bloody code, Knight Commander, as I'm sure you might understand.  Many of us would not be fighting at all, were it not for the fact that the Chantry has left us no choice.  Aside from passively accepting genocide."

     Which Cullen has tried to explain to the Chantry, to the Divine, via letters.  It is foolish to expect even the most devout Andrastean mage to submit to the authority of a faith that declares their very existence anathema.  Apart from the immorality of such a gesture, it all but guarantees that Tevinter's ranks will soon swell with angry apostates, and soon the lands of the White Divine will have to contend with both the Qunari _and_ a resurgent Imperium.  But all of his letters have been returned, unopened.

     That is neither here nor there.  "Inquisitors?" he asks.

     "Dead."  Tobrius smiles thinly.  "Or captured, a handful of them; the rest fought to the end.  They took several of us with them."  He sighs, his smile fading.  "We found you in the ashes, quite literally.  Along with a few of the Inquisitors' other victims -- the mages who were with you, and third woman whom they'd clearly held for some time."

     Cullen remembers the sleep spell that almost took him, during the fight.  "Collaborator?"

     The look that crosses Tobrius' face is too bitter to be a smile.  "Oh, no, Knight Commander.  One collaborates only with equals.  The Inquisition has taken a note from the Qunari; when they capture a mage they cut out her tongue, sew her lips, wrap her in chains and a mask.  But they have tried to take matters a step further.  Experiments, you see, using Tranquility brands...  They hope to only _partially_ burn out a mage's soul -- keep the magic, lose the will that wields it."  As Cullen tries to fathom this, Tobrius rubs his face in his hands, looking older and wearier than he did just a few moments before.  "They'd just started the process with your mages; we're tending to them.  The one they had longer... we thought it best to... release her, from her pain.  Perhaps you can understand that."

     Maker's Breath.  Cullen stares at him.

     "Despite that."  Tobrius seems to try and rally his wits.  "We are not the Black Feathers, but it is in our mutual interest to determine our enemies' plans.  We do not use torture."  Tobrius holds up his hands quickly, perhaps to forestall whatever Cullen might say.  "Nor will we use blood magic to take over the captives' minds.  We will simply ask them to answer our questions.  If they do not answer, we will turn them over to the Seekers of Truth."

     Cullen frowns, and Tobrius reads his face easily.  "We are aware that _the Seekers_ have no qualms against torture.  Our own hands will be clean -- perhaps only in the semantic sense, but even that much is something, given the nature of this war."

     Cullen is not feeling especially concerned for the Inquisitors at the moment.  He frowned only because he hadn't realized the Seekers were engaged with the mages at all.  They serve the Chantry, do they not?  And the Chantry wants mages exterminated.

     Then again... perhaps he has not thought this through in sufficient complexity.  The Chantry is not a monolith, after all, any more than the rebel mages are.  And perhaps there are forces within it -- forces to which the Seekers are loyal -- which also seek a path to peace.

     When Cullen does not speak, Tobrius sighs.  "We were unable to track down the slavers who bought the Starkhaven mage-children.  But we will continue to try.  Some of us have... friends... in Tevinter, who will assist."

     And there are rumors that several Tevinter magisters are financing parts of the rebellion.  Cullen sighs at this confirmation.

     "On another note... we have heard of your Declaration, Knight Commander."

     The Declaration of Mage Rights and Non-Mage Responsibilities.  Cullen has been trying to think of a shorter name for it.  But he frowns.  "Sent... messengers.  To Feathers.  _Killed_."  He is still angry over that.

     "Yes, so I heard.  It _is_ the policy of the Feathers to kill Templars on sight, Knight Commander; you really should have sent someone else."

     The young man was not a Templar, Cullen thinks, and is too tired to say.  He'd been a recruit, yes, but as yet unsworn, and Cullen had taken pains to make him dress in plain armor and carry none of the accoutrements of the Order on his person for precisely the reason Tobrius stated.  A volunteer, who'd done it because his sister was a mage and he wanted peace for her sake.  But the Feathers murdered him and left the copy of the Declaration scattered about his body, with the topmost page pinned to the young man's chest.  Written in his blood had been the word _No_.

     "Still," Tobrius says, "the Declaration was read, and word of it has spread throughout the rebellion.  The Feathers rejected it because they have vowed to fight until mages are completely free of any restrictions, and until all Templars are dead.  Given that the Templars of the Inquisition are Void-bent on the opposite outcome -- all mages dead, all heretics with them, Templars ruling Thedas with a mailed fist -- this war will not end soon."

     Cullen closes his eyes.  He can tell that his leg has been repaired; if he needs to, now he can run.  Some of the burns are gone, at least the ones most likely to fester, including a particularly unpleasant one caused when Karras "accidentally" rested the hot poker on his crotch.  Cullen is especially grateful for that healing.

     He knows that his arms, however, will not be usable anytime soon.  Even if bones were not demonishly difficult for any healer to fix, Karras has done his damnedest to ensure that Cullen's bones are virtually crushed. 

     _"You'll never hold a sword again,"_ he'd snarled into Cullen's ear, his breath a foul miasma that Cullen could not help breathing in because he'd had to, in order to scream.  _"Maybe we'll have to take both arms off, and won't that be grand?  You'll have to wriggle to that mageblooded bastard of yours on your belly, like a snake.  If you ever see him again."_   He'd spat off to the side, his face twisted in fury.  _"No better than fucking a filthy robe, that.  Meredith had the way of it, but she didn't go far enough.  We'll kill all the robes, kill all their friends, kill all the families that spewed one out, and finally the world will be free of magic's curse."_

     Tobrius hunkers down to sit on a log, grimacing elaborately; apparently his knees hurt.  He remembers Carver mentioning this man as a contemporary and comrade of his father.  Would that the world still had Malcolm Hawke now, to help his sons in their struggle.

     "However," Tobrius says, and Cullen is forced to look at him and stop thinking about things that cannot be changed, "some of us who are _not_ Feathers found your Declaration... intriguing."

     It is a lifeline for his sanity.  It's hope.  Cullen grabs onto it, because that's all he can do.

#

     "Make love to me," he whispers, and Carver pulls him close.

     It's been a terrible day.  Before dawn, someone dressed in Templar recruit armor -- an Inquisition-sympathizer -- broke into the apprentice dormitory of the Gallows, dispatched the Templar on duty there from behind, and proceeded to stab every sleeping apprentice he could.  Just walked up and down the rows, killing children as he went.  The children themselves stopped him -- one of them using blood magic to turn the assassin's own veins against him, and the other, mortally wounded, transforming into a rage abomination and tearing the man apart before dying herself.  Thankfully. 

     Cullen has spent the day attempting to buy several dozen very small coffins from the dwarves.  Kirkwall does not have enough in that size.

     He can't think about it anymore.  He cannot bear the memory of their still faces, the abbatoir smell of the apprentice dormitory; he cannot consider what should be done about a six-year-old blood mage.  All he wants is to feel Carver's hard arms around him, and Carver's mouth on his, unshaven stubble scratching against his own, and Carver's warmth and weight like a shield keeping the world at bay.

     The room is cold and dark.  Winter has come and the days are short.  Carver has wet them both with oil and now they move together slowly, steadily, with no particular urgency.  It is not fucking.  They breathe in unison.  Carver has propped himself on one arm, the fingers of that hand stroking Cullen's hair; his free hand flutters over Cullen's lips, his throat, his nipples, his hip.  When Cullen whispers, barely audible, "I'm coming," Carver shifts to put a hand between them, massaging them together, and his face tightens in a familiar way.  Cullen wraps arms around him tight, hooks a leg over his hip, and grinds up until Carver makes a soft fevered sound in his ear.  That is what Cullen needed.  He shudders and lets himself go.

#

     Karras is grinning at him and unfastening his trousers.  "You like the robes so much, let's see how you like getting treated like one," he says, and Cullen prepares to send his mind away again.  He's already delirious from wound-fever.  Perhaps he won't come back this time.

     But someone calls Karras away, and Cullen waits in dread of his return, and suddenly he jerks out of sleep with a cry.

     Tobrius, sitting up nearby on watch, smiles thinly at him.  "You sound like a mage, Knight Commander.  Go back to sleep.  The demons are gone, for now."

#

     When he wakes to find Carver bending over him, he thinks it is another cruel dream.  Then Carver says, "Cullen," and there is no mistaking the reverberation of his voice, the agony in his eyes.  It's real.  Carver's here.

     He takes Cullen home.

#

     "So," says Cullen.

     He's sitting in his office, in uniform, back at work.  His desk is piled high; Carver apparently did nothing but search for Cullen, once word came of the Inquisition's attack.  He's worked on it a little since the healers pronounced Cullen out of danger, but that only dented the piles.  Carver sits on the other side of the desk:  the Knight Commander and his Captain, discussing policy.

     "You will have two extra hours each week, at least," Cullen says.  He smiles, and Carver scowls.

     Ten days of advanced healing have done all that can be done.  Cullen's arms have been saved.  The bones are intact.  But there are thick, lumpen calluses all along the break-points -- he can feel them in his forearms when he prods with his fingers.  The muscles in the arm flex oddly now, and some of them are sluggish and weak.  He has attempted, several times, to grasp and draw his sword from its scabbard.  He's succeeded only in throwing the damned thing across the room, and shattering a nice vase.

     "Sod that," Carver says.  He's sitting as if relaxed, legs crossed and fingers folded together in his lap, but Cullen can see that his folded hands are tight as fists. "You just need to work at this, Cullen, like the healers said."

     "I know.  And I will."  He'll keep attempting to draw the sword until he can do it successfully.  And then he will keep attempting to grip the sword until he can hold it against an enemy's strike.  And then he will do more.  "But these things will take a long time, Carver."  Years, the healers have said.  "Until then... it would be a waste of your time to continue our weekly sparring."

     Carver falls silent, his face trembling, and Cullen feels guilty.

     Perhaps he should change the subject.  Cullen props his elbows on the chair armrests and steeples his fingers; this takes a great deal of concentration.  "In the meantime, I would like to attempt overtures to Val Royeaux again," he says.  Carver grimaces, and Cullen smiles.  " _Not_ to the Divine, this time.  I think she has made clear that she is no potential ally.  But there must be others around her, factions within the hierarchy, who see that this madness cannot continue.  If we can put those factions in touch with the interested factions among the mages..."

     Tobrius came back with them -- a gesture of good faith, he says, on the part of unnamed authorities who have granted him permission to speak on their behalf.  There's more to the mage rebellion than just Feathers and not, Cullen knows now; apparently there are several factions, some of them organized along the old Circle fraternity lines, some of them new and strange.  But there is a degree of unity between them, and they are very interested in Cullen's Declaration.  They are interested in Cullen's Gallows, too -- to see if the man who was once Meredith's right hand has truly repented of his old ways.  Cullen orders his men not to interfere with Tobrius as he walks around, observing, and they are not to do things differently, either.  Let Tobrius see the truth of what Cullen means to create, and judge him accordingly.  There must be trust if there is to be peace.

     "Suppose it can't hurt to try," says Carver.

     "Yes.  And there is another matter I would like to address."  Cullen takes a deep breath and braces himself.  "As you know, the Knight Commander of any Templar garrison must be fit to fight.  As I am no longer -- "

     "Cullen."

     " -- and as you are more than sufficiently seasoned -- "

     "Finish that sentence and _I will jump over this desk to beat you._ "  Cullen falters silent in surprise, as Carver lurches to his feet and plants his fists on the desk.  "Don't you fucking _dare_."

     "Carver."  Does Carver not realize how painful this is, for him?  Cullen takes another breath.  "I am no fit warrior.  How can I be a sword of the Maker when I can't lift a sword?  You deserve --  The Gallows deserves -- "

     "The Gallows," Carver snarls, "deserves the best possible Knight Commander it can have.  That's you, not me."

     "My sword -- "

     Carver pounds a fist on the desk; a sheaf of papers falls over and scatters on the floor.  They both ignore it as he leans over to snarl into Cullen's face.  " _I will be your sword._ "

     The words hit him like a slap.  He stares back at Carver, confused, wondering, and Carver's face twists.  He lifts a hand to cup the back of Cullen's head, pulling him forward until their foreheads rest together.

     "I'll be your fucking sword, and your fucking shield," Carver snaps.  His voice is thick, and belatedly it occurs to Cullen that Carver is on the brink of tears.  "So you don't need to step down.  You've got everything you need to be Knight Commander, right here.  Point me wherever you need something beaten down and I'll do it.  If something comes at you, I'll block it -- and I _won't fail_.  Not again.  Maker as my witness, _never_ again."

     It hurts to see this.  "You didn't fail me, Carver -- "

     "I did!"  Carver shouts the words, letting him go and turning away to pace a vicious circle in front of Cullen's desk.  "I knew that damn Declaration would put you in their sights.  I should have insisted that you take more men with you.  I should have killed that fucker Karras before he had a chance to go join those other fanatical bastards --  I should've _been_ there!"  And then he stops, staring at Cullen, his hands dropping to his sides and his face utterly, utterly lost.  "Look at what they've done to you.  Look what I _let_ them do."

     Cullen stares at him, shocked.

     All at once Carver turns, scooping up his sword and scabbard from the nearby stand, and walks out.

#

     Cullen walks down the stairs of the Gallows dungeon slowly.  The leg still twinges a little, though that will fade soon, he knows from prior experience with healing.  It was a cleaner injury than the arms.  He goes slowly more because of his mood than the pain.  He had hoped to never come here again.  But.

     A gesture of good faith.  Karras hangs where the men have chained him to the wall, dressed in only shirt and trou, his face more than stubbly and making his once-neat sideburns look like rotting wings.  Cullen can see no visible injuries, and he seems in good health.  That is only because Cullen has left orders to ensure that Carver never comes in here.  He's glad no one's disobeyed that order, no matter how much Carver threatened them.

     Karras stirs and lifts his head as Cullen draws near, and Cullen sees that none of his spirit has been broken. Karras sneers a smile.  "Well, well.  Thought I might see you again.  Tables turned, and all."  His sneer fades, just a little, and Cullen can almost smell his fear.  "Get on with it, then."

     Cullen shakes his head.  "You are to face proper justice, Karras.  I'll not demean myself, or my oath, by acting like you."

     Karras stares at him, then laughs, long and bitterly.  "Listen at you.  Almost as bad as Meredith.  Fucking brown-noser."  He shifts as if to test his bonds, and sags a little when they don't budge.  "Thought you were sensible, once.  You never minded what I did to the robes.  Never stopped me, til suddenly this was your watch and you decided to get all righteous."

     Cullen nods.  This is all true.

     "They ain't _like_ us, Cullen."  Karras is suddenly serious; there is a hint of pleading in his voice.  "They got too much power.  Don't you see?  If we don't chain them up, they'll _take over_.  That's what always happens when you got some people with more power than others.  It'll be Tevinter all over again!"

     "I think we are _already_ Tevinter, in mirror," Cullen says softly.  "We take from our mages even the right to control their bodies:  that is slavery.  We commit such evil in the name of our god."  He shakes his head.  " _We_ are the ones acting the magister, Karras.  And we will fall, as Tevinter did, if we do not change."

     Karras curses.  "They've gotten to you, they have.  Through that mageblood of yours, is that it?  He's dancing to his brother's tune, you fool!"  He grinds his teeth, so hard that Cullen can hear them groan.  "Look, stick them all you want; Maker knows I've tasted my share of mageflesh.  But don't _listen_ to them, for fuck's sake.  Don't _fall_ for them, as if they're people.  You're a Templar!  Remember what that means!"

     Cullen nods.  "I do remember." 

     He draws the knife at his belt.  It's light enough that he can grip its hilt easily, but it still feels horribly alien in his hand.  An interloper taking the place of the sword that belongs there.

     "Knight Lieutenant Karras," he says.  "Or, former Knight Lieutenant, as you have resigned your commission.  If you had not, I would strip you of your rank for disgracing your oath."

     Karras scowls.  "I've held my oath better than you ever did, you robe-lover.  I protect the world from magic -- "

     "The curse of magic lies not only in magic itself," Cullen continues, as if Karras has not spoken.  The knife's blade catches the chamber's dim light as he turns it; he feels the reflection move across his face.  "Magic is but a tool, after all.  Its danger lies in people -- magic's wielders, yes, but also its detractors.  Anyone who would exploit magic, or the _fear_ of magic, for evil purposes." 

     He lifts his eyes, and Karras actually flinches.  "That fear has corrupted you, Karras, as surely as any demon."

     "What the fuck are you -- "

     "I name you abomination.  I would commend your soul to the Maker, if there were anything left of it."

     Karras stares at him.  "You name me _what_?"

     "May the Maker guide my hand." 

     And he swings that hand, weak as it is, in a scything arc.  In this, at least, it feels like a sword:  there is only the merest hint of resistance as the blade slices through Karras' throat.  The blood runs like water, and Karras' eyes have begun to roll back even before Cullen finishes wiping the blade with a kerchief.  By the time he re-sheaths the knife, Karras is dead.

     Cullen goes to the door and knocks in a pattern, so that the guards will let him out.  Then he gives careful instructions to have Karras' body removed from the wall and disposed of by burning and salting.  The same as any other monster's corpse.

#

     He is standing at the picture window in their quarters when Carver comes in.

     It's midnight.  Cullen's been home for hours, waiting.  He listens while Carver racks his armor and sword, and then watches his reflection as Carver crosses the room and stops behind him.  They look at each other through glass-shadows.

     "I'm sorry," Carver blurts.  "I... shit.  All I'm doing is thinking about myself right now, and here you've been through the Void and back.  Last thing you need's me yelling at you."

     "And I am sorry," says Cullen.  When Carver frowns, he turns from the window and goes over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.  He cannot grip that shoulder the way he wants, but... well.  The touch is enough, for now. 

     "You're right.  You _are_ my sword and my shield; never doubt that.  But more importantly..."  Cullen flexes the hand that executed Karras.  "I am still of some use to the Maker, I think.  And while I am, I have no right to step away from my duty."

     Carver relaxes, perceptibly; a look of relief crosses his face.  But there is still guilt there, and that sobers him, and troubles Cullen.  "Damn straight," Carver says, but the words lack conviction.

     So Cullen takes Carver's hand.  He fumbles this at first; his fingers feel clumsy and thick, like they're made of wood.  He sees Carver's face grow pained as he realizes Cullen's having trouble, and that spurs Cullen to try harder.  He grasps Carver's hand and squeezes it as hard as he can.  It takes a moment, but then the anxiety on Carver's face eases a little.

     Then he leads Carver into the bedroom, and lays him down.  He undresses himself and then does the same for Carver; when Carver tries to help, Cullen swats his hands away, clumsily.  It takes time.  He has trouble, especially with the laces.  But he gets it done, and Carver lies before him, beautiful and wholesome and _his_ \-- and so very, very afraid.  Cullen strokes his face to try and soothe away that fear; doing that much, at least, is still easy for him.  Then he leans down to kiss Carver.

     "Thinking of you kept me strong in that forest," he says.  "That is what you have done for me.  Even though you weren't there, I am whole because of you."

     Carver looks away.  "Not _whole_.  Not completely."

     He slides one of his clumsy hands down Carver's torso.  "Then you may be whole for me, too, if it troubles you so.  But what matters is that my mind remains strong.  My will is unbroken.  You know I've struggled with this before."

     And Carver frowns at him, troubled.  "Yeah."

     "You know what I am capable of becoming."  He cannot help thinking of Karras as he says this.

     Carver's face tightens.  "That was -- "

     "You _know_.  You do me no credit to deny it."

     It takes a moment.  He is still very young in some ways, Carver Hawke.  But finally he takes a deep breath and admits:  "Yeah.  I know."

     Cullen shifts closer, kisses the divot between Carver's collarbones.  "Then know that my soul is in your keeping while we are in this world, and I entrust it to you gladly.  All else is irrelevant."  Then he smiles against Carver's skin.  "Well.  Not _irrelevant_.  I shall, of course, work hard to make my body strong again.  Will you help me with that?"

     Carver's voice is incredulous.  " _Yeah_ , I'll help you.  Why are you even asking?"

     "Because I would like to begin now."  He nuzzles Carver's throat, breathes his scent, so familiar and comforting.  He tries to embed this moment in his memories, for the next time he needs it.  "Let me touch you.  Just with my hands.  Let me -- "  He blushes.  "Ah, pleasure you.  Just with my hands."

     He is unsurprised when Carver half sits up, propping himself on one elbow to stare at Cullen. 

     Then his face softens.  He reaches for Cullen's hand where it rests on his chest.  Cullen sees him make himself _look_ at it, hard, for the first time since the healers let Cullen out of bed.  They both take in the loose fingers, the palm that is half-curled in permanent spasm.  Carver knows that Cullen's grip is weak.  All the little tricks that work so well on him, all the firm strokes and delicate nudges and deft encirclings, Cullen can do none of them. 

     Not _now_ , anyway.  With practice, though... perhaps.

     Cullen sees this realization cross Carver's face.  He sees Carver consider it, and hear what Cullen is really asking.

     Carver lifts Cullen's hand and kisses the fingers.  Cullen cannot help twitching, at this.  Wanting to touch.  His mouth waters, but he schools himself to patience.  This will take time, for both of them.  It will not be easy.

     Then Carver lies back down.  He pulls Cullen's hand to his belly and smiles, relaxing, ready.  So Cullen begins again.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this started out as another Erudition (if you can't tell), then took a much darker and more complex turn as a few bad things happened this week. Yes, I'm assuming that eventually the Inquisition won't target just mages, but mage bloodlines as well; extremist movements tend to get more extreme over time, history shows us. Completist that I am, I actually started doing a little research on the tortures used by the Catholic Inquisition as I expanded the story... and then I stopped, because OMG, I really didn't want to write that. So where that level of torture happens, it's offscreen because I am a wimp. ::sigh:: Anyway, writing it helped me feel better. There is something to that whole concept of catharsis.
> 
> The title is bitterly ironic, as Cullen spends a lot of time screaming in this episode.
> 
> On a completely different note, I am trying out Tumblr. Someone else took "wargoddess", RAGE. Well, not really rage, more like CRANKINESS. So I'm here at http://w4rgoddess.tumblr.com/ instead.


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